In Sight of Stars(54)

“No.” I say. “It wasn’t okay at all.”

*

It’s raining so hard by the time I get in the car, I can barely see out through the windshield. I drive anyway, navigating back roads I still don’t know all that well. Especially when I get to the Trees section.

Aspen, to Oakwood, to Ash.

The roads are dark, with only intermittent street lamps. I squint, frantic, trying to keep my mother’s words, the awful disgusting images, from prying their way in.

Dunn’s house is in the polar opposite direction from where I live. Past where Sarah lives, past where we go to River’s Edge.

They call this neighborhood “the Trees” for obvious reasons. Ash, to Dogwood. Dogwood, to Poplar, to Pine.

Where’s Pine?

I turn on my wipers, but the rain streams down harder and faster than they help. My headlights bounce back at me off the sheet of rain, blurring things, making it harder and harder to see. Worse, these back roads are pitted from the winter’s ice and snow, filling with rainwater that splashes up as my father’s Mercedes bumps through.

At the end of what seems like a dead end, I turn back, squint down the length of Dogwood again.

I see a sign I missed, but when I reach it, it reads Maple, not Pine.

A crazy thought pops into my head: What if there is no Pine? What if it’s a setup because Sarah didn’t want me to come?

But she wouldn’t do that. Sarah loves me. She told me she does.

“My dearest man…”

Something I see now: People lie all the time.

By the time I pass Ash again, I’m having a hard time breathing at all.

I should turn around and go home, but instead I turn the wipers higher. Their useless shum-shum does nothing to clear my vision.

Calm down, Klee. It’s not a highway. You’re not being tricked. Stop being such a baby.

Stop being a pathetic little wuss.

My eyes scan frantically, squinting as they land on the street signs. Poplar again, and now tears are making it hard to see.

Shit! Are you kidding me?

I pull the car over and swipe at my face with my sleeve, then look up and see it: Pine Street. Right in front of my nose.

No tricks. No lies.

Find 44 Pine. Where Sarah is.

Before I reach the house, I hear the music. The curbs and the lawn are thick with cars, the house lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

I pass one parked car after another, looking for a spot, looking for Sarah’s mother’s car. But none of them look like hers. No big deal. Maybe she got a ride.

The music intensifies. I slow Dad’s car to a crawl.

What if she’s not here? I’m never going to find a place to park. I’m going to have to circle around again.

A high-pitched double beep, and I stop. A black car’s lights flash twice, and two kids come stumbling out into the rain. They climb in, close the doors, and its backup lights go on.

At least I won’t have to walk too far.

The car backs out after several drunken maneuvers, and I ease my father’s Mercedes in.

Find Sarah, and everything will be okay.

I shove it in Park, pull up my hood, and duck out into the torrential rain.

By the time I reach the door, I’m drenched. The door is open, though, so I won’t have to ring.

I push it wider and step inside.

The music is deafening. The place is crawling with people. Smoke, body odor, alcohol. The air is sweaty and oppressive. Beer cans, whisky bottles everywhere. The cloyingly sweet smell of weed.

“Alden is here!” someone says, and there’s laughter. I push my way past. I don’t even care. I’m shivering because of how soaked I am.

I make my way down the hall, my eyes scanning frantically for Sarah. She’s not here in the hall or in the kitchen.

As I push through the living room, someone yells, “Dude!” and I nearly trip over a guy on the floor on his girlfriend. In the corner, I spot Anna Morrissey from Tarantoli’s class. I yell, “Hey! Have you seen Sarah?” but she simply shrugs, and the girl next to her says, “Oh, shit!” then covers her mouth and leans into Anna.

Doesn’t matter.

Head down.

Find Sarah.

“Try the basement,” someone says, pulling my shoulder, so I make my way down through the crowd.

But she’s not there either, so I make my way back upstairs.

There’s a second flight up, to the bedrooms.

I take those stairs two at a time.

In the first room, there’s a bed, at least four bodies writhing and necking, the mess of jackets and bags kicked to the floor.

I close the door and open another one. It’s like a Price Is Right I don’t want to win.

Another bedroom. Another couple. No Sarah.

I’m almost relieved.

Maybe she left. Maybe she left and went home.

I stagger down the hall, dizzy and buzzed from the smoke and the din. I just need to check the rest of the rooms and get out of here.

I pass a bathroom. The lights are off except for a night-light, and the door is ajar.

Someone is moving in there.

I push the door open, then close it quickly. Mortified.

A girl is on the toilet.

Then I hear it: A moan. A guy’s voice, then her’s.

Sarah’s.

She isn’t peeing. She is sitting on the toilet. Backward.